Felix chatted on a bit longer about an artist called Jean Pasteau, whom he much admired, whilst I admired his brown ankles between his jeans and his moccasins. I nodded knowledgeably all the while, trying to concentrate on what he was saying, about the way contemporary art was heading today and how it filled a gap in an increasingly mechanized society, brought people together through discussion, but if I wasn’t looking at his elegant ankles I was gazing into his sea-green eyes in his tanned face and that was distracting too, so I went back to the ankles as if deep in thought, scalding my lips on the hot, strange-tasting tea in an effort to drink it quickly and take my grubby presence more rapidly from these rarefied, cultured people, the like of whom one didn’t stumble across much in the lanes of Herefordshire. I thought of Peter, blushing his way through supper in a tweed jacket he clearly hadn’t worn for years, bursting out of it as he described, in detail, exactly how he’d extended his greenhouse for his plant collection. Of Paddy flinging a dead chicken at my feet, the life of which I’d apparently mismanaged, before roaring rudely off in his pickup. I realized it didn’t have to be like that. That there was another life. Here. One with sunlit antiques and paintings in elegantly curtained rooms; thoughtful, engaging people who dressed well and talked of literature and the theatre before popping to the latest exhibition at the Tate Modern. I wanted this new life so much it hurt.
I’d have to shape up, of course. I sat up. Lose a few pounds, get some new clothes – I tucked my old espadrilles under the sofa, aware that bits of rope were coming adrift from the wedges – have some highlights, that type of thing. But I’d done all that before in my other life, albeit juggling small children madly so always slightly frayed at the edges – look closely when I flew back from the agency to make supper and supervise homework and you’d see egg down the front of the Nicole Farhi shirt, or find bits of Nico’s Lego in my handbag – but it wasn’t complete anathema. I could do it. And now I had more time, I could do it properly. I really could become, not the yummy mummy I’d aspired to be in Nappy Valley, but one of those truly leisured women in SW3, the ones we south-of-the-river-dwellers scorned but secretly envied, with their manicured nails, their lunches in Daphne’s, their flits to the Saatchi gallery before tea in Peter Jones with friends.
Ah, yes, friends. Silvia and I had originally kept in touch, but only via email. And only because she was so persistent. I hadn’t answered her calls. Rosie had tried hard too, left loads of messages on the answerphone, and Caroline also, although she’d abruptly gone quiet. I’d often wake in the small hours, wondering how much she knew. All had eventually given up, assuming sadly I’d gone into my shell after David’s death. The last time I’d seen them had been at the funeral, which was a blur, although Rosie had driven down unannounced once afterwards, had a cup of tea. But I hadn’t made her very welcome. I’d been so terrified to see her, feeding the hens in the front yard as her convertible BMW drove in, my hand frozen on the grain in the bucket as I recognized her smiling and waving at the wheel. Speech had deserted me as she got out in smart jeans and long leather boots with a huge bunch of flowers. I couldn’t get rid of her fast enough, and it was a long drive from London. I’d been so scared she was going to say something about Henri or Caroline, which I knew would send me shooting back to square one in terms of guilt and remorse and depression, that I’d manufactured an appointment with a solicitor to get rid of her. She’d known, though. I’d seen her sad face as she got back in the car. Knew she’d tell Silvia: ‘I did my best, Silv, honestly. But she doesn’t want to know.’
‘Maybe we remind her too much of what she had?’
‘Maybe.’
But I could find new friends here, I thought, spotting, out of the corner of my eye, a beautiful coiffed woman of about my age through the window, heading off down the mews. I had friends at home, of course: Anna, enormous fun and jolly but ten years older than me, and Tia, of course, and—
I realized with a start that my tea was cold and the room very quiet. Robert and Felix were looking at me.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Robert looked anxious, his face coming closer to mine.
‘Me? Yes! Gosh, sorry.’ My cup clattered down into its saucer. ‘Don’t know where I was for a moment. Well, I do, but—’ I got hurriedly to my feet, putting my cup on the side. They rose instantly as one, Felix’s long legs unfolding and straightening.
‘I must be away,’ I said, beaming. ‘You’ve been more than kind and I’ve intruded on your time for far too long. I can’t thank you enough for telling me about Cuthbert, and please, um …’ How did one say take your time, don’t rush to get out, I’m in no hurry without sounding like a patronizing landlord?
Predictably, Felix came to my rescue. ‘And we’ll be in touch about timings,’ he said with easy grace, walking me to the front door. ‘I’ve already organized a small removal van next week to take Dad’s stuff, but there’s hardly anything, most was Cuthbert’s which stays put, so—’
I stopped. ‘You mean … the art? The furniture?’
‘Of course. He was a great collector. Always at the auction houses, and Pa was his greatest supporter. They had such fun trawling, but it was all Cuthbert’s.’
Lordy. I felt a bit faint at this news. Could imagine the children saying – sell it! Must be worth a fortune! But I wouldn’t. I would love to be surrounded by it.
‘So perhaps if we swap emails …’ Felix was saying.
He drew his phone from his back pocket and I was equally quick on the draw. I’d swap anything with this man. Was he married? I wondered. He hadn’t mentioned a wife, but why would he? Or perhaps he was gay, too? No, I didn’t think so. He was way out of my league, of course, and if he was married, completely out of bounds. I was never going there again. But close up, which I was now, he was older than he looked. Definitely older than me. By a few years. Just incredibly well preserved. Which I wasn’t. But I would be bloody soon. Oh, you betcha.
I shook hands eagerly with Robert, who’d followed us down, agreeing it had been absolutely lovely to meet, and if only we’d met before, and in an effort to match them on the manners front, assured them the house was completely gorgeous, which was probably the crassest thing I could have said. Even Robert was nonplussed.
‘I’m so glad you like it,’ he murmured as I flushed to my roots.
With a smile he took his leave, letting his son see me off, but as I stepped outside I turned. I saw him go back down the hall, his correct military stance drooping a little. The figure I recall, as he put his hand on the banister to steady himself and go on up the stairs, was not of a proud, stately gentleman, but an old man, still suffering from flu and grief, and worn out now by conversation, going back to bed.
Felix joined me in the street. He turned to me, his eyes slightly anxious.
‘Now that Dad’s out of earshot, I wonder, would you mind terribly meeting me on my own? For lunch perhaps?’
For a mad moment I thought he was asking me out. My heart leaped right up into my throat. Already? Then, in a nanosecond, I realized it was about his father.
‘Of course.’
Father or not, there was no way I was turning that down. His eyes practically matched the faded sea-green shirt he was wearing – did he know that? He was an artist, after all.
‘Shall we say next week? I have to judge a prize on aesthetic relations in Venice this week, it’s the Biennale. But I’ll be back on Tuesday. May I take the liberty of booking a table somewhere?’
May he … blinking heck. He could book a hotel somewhere. No, of course he couldn’t, I didn’t mean that. But I realized it was the first time in five years I’d actually been attracted to anyone. I felt something dry and desiccated unfurl deep within me: felt tiny new green shoots appear beneath the withered brown husk, pointing their delicate pale tips to the sun. I smilingly took my leave, agreeing he jolly well could, and turned down the street, hearing the door shut softly behind me.
Ridiculously, I felt as if I were being carried along
on a carpet of air as I tripped lightly across the cobbles. I knew I had a lot to do. And precious little time to do it. I had to dash to Earls Court and collect my things, then I had to get to King’s Cross and trundle back down to Herefordshire to hassle Peter pronto. That depressing, energy-sapping farm had to go. I would have my new life. I clenched my fists excitedly. Before I went back to Lucy’s, though, I headed up to the King’s Road to make a few purchases. One was a shedload of new make-up from the department on the first floor at Peter Jones, and the other was a large, shiny book which I found in Waterstones, entitled Contemporary Art and Relational Aesthetics.
10
On the way home I made two discoveries. One was that it doesn’t matter how much ruinously expensive Touche Éclat you slather on your face in an effort to cover the red thread veins on your windblown cheeks, they still shine through, and the other was that my hunch about Fine – or Contemporary – Art had been right. It is not fine at all. Not in the way you and I would imagine. It is not glorious oil paintings of damsels in crinolines or strutting cavalry officers in tight breeches à la Gainsborough, it is indeed naked men in buckets, and the rubber ducks are not necessarily in their mouths.
I stared at a photograph of an array of shop mannequins flying upside down around a maypole, the ribbons tied to their feet. How did one go about viewing that? I wondered. Not that I’d necessarily be leading the stampede. Did the gallery lay on coaches to a field? Cart punters off to see it? Maybe I should have staged something similar at the farm, charged for entry. Diversifying was all the rage these days, although I couldn’t necessarily see the good burghers of Ludlow beating a path to my door to see that. I turned the page to view another colour plate, this of a naked woman curled up inside a grand piano and fondling a piglet. I turned the book sideways to get a better look. Right. I just didn’t understand it, that was all. I needed to be educated. But I’d have it under my belt in no time, I decided, snapping the book shut. Oh yes, this wouldn’t be a problem. I hastened off the train at my stop, feeling better than I had done for years.
I’d rung Peter from the train and he’d agreed to come and value the farm properly.
‘Today?’ I’d asked.
‘Er, well, yes, OK. If you like.’ I did. ‘When are you back?’
I told him and he agreed to meet me. He said he’d put some feelers out already and that the feedback was encouraging.
‘Oh good, Peter,’ I breathed happily. ‘So you don’t think it’ll take long?’
‘Well, we’ll see. We don’t want to give it away, do we? Can I ask what the tearing hurry is, anyway, Molly?’
He could, but I wouldn’t give him a straight answer. Instead I mumbled something about it having been on my mind for a long time, ages in fact, but now I’d finally crossed a line and made a decision, which was rubbish, of course. I’d decided in the space of about a day and confirmed it over a pair of green eyes.
Two pairs of brown ones, one more hazel – Peter’s – the others darker, like hard, chocolate chips, were waiting for me in the yard as I sped in, scattering chickens. Oh Lord, Paddy Campbell too. What was he doing here? Ah, of course. Sizing up my land already.
‘You don’t waste much time, do you?’ I cried as I got out of the car and went across towards them, swinging my handbag jauntily.
‘What d’you mean?’ he asked stiffly.
‘Well, I imagine Peter told you I’m leaving? Offered you the land?’
‘No, I didn’t know that.’ A muscle went in his cheek. Annoyance, no doubt, at not being the first to know.
‘No, I hadn’t mentioned it,’ Peter said quickly. ‘Thought we’d discuss it first. Decide which paddock you want to keep with the house. As we said, the long meadow is the obvious one, but I wanted to make sure.’
We turned as one and gazed at the daisy- and buttercup-strewn meadow at the back of the house: long and lush, it was looking particularly enchanting today with my goat, Monty, grazing it. In fact the whole place looked magical, floating with early cow parsley whose heads bobbed like little clouds in the faint breeze, the woods beyond speckled with creamy wild garlic, the sun, on this glorious day, glistening on the river which meandered through the valley. It reminded me of the day David had first brought me here, and of course I’d patched up the house since then, so it was in a much better state with newly painted windows, re-pointed eaves, mown lawns. Even the fencing was looking good. But I knew the reality: the eccentric plumbing, the galloping damp, the leaky basement, the mice – rats, even – the cold, depressing winter months, trudging across rock-hard fields at six in the morning with my axe to crack ice on troughs, my hands frozen with cold. April was definitely the cruellest month in that it was surely the most deceptive.
‘I think the long meadow,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s the obvious one. The rest we’ll parcel up and sell separately. Might you be interested, Paddy?’
‘Depends. Where are you going?’
‘I’m off to London!’ I said gaily, for all the world like Dick Whittington, sailing off to the gold-paved streets. ‘Back home, really.’ I was aware that my eyes were shining and that Paddy’s were like flints.
‘Bully for you.’
‘I’ve come into an inheritance,’ I went on, knowing it was nobody’s business but my own but unable to contain myself. ‘A relative of David’s has died.’
Paddy shrugged. ‘Well, you know what they say. Where there’s a will, there’s a relative.’
I frowned, unsure how to take that.
‘So, um, I was thinking,’ Peter broke in, aware that sparks were about to fly, ‘that there’s no rush then, surely, Molly? It’s not as if you have to sell the farm in order to buy in London, is it? Why not take it more slowly? Get the best price?’
‘Oh no, I want to be shot of the worry. And you know when you’ve made a decision, you just want to be there? In that place in your head you’ve decided you want to be?’ Since, in my head, I had a cosy supper with Felix in my new kitchen, sharing a bottle of wine, eyes locked over a dish of pasta – vongole, I’d decided, I was good at that – the two men in my front yard looked understandably blank. But then neither was particularly in touch with their feminine side. Or had much imagination either.
‘So what are you doing here, Paddy?’ I turned. ‘If not sizing up my acres?’
‘Your mother called me. One of your ewes can’t get up, she’s grazing lying down.’
‘Oh no! Which one?’
‘I don’t know which one,’ he said irritably. ‘A Hampshire, in the far field. Two lambs at foot.’
‘Oh. Damn. OK, let’s go and see. Peter, d’you mind taking a look round the house on your own? Mum’s gone, she texted me.’
‘I was going to suggest that anyway,’ he said. ‘And your mother said the same, I saw her leave. I just thought I’d wait because she said you were on your way. I won’t poke around too much.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry, no secrets in this house!’
‘It’s easier, actually. Don’t have to ooh and ah.’
‘Well, quite. Give the dining-room door a good shove – it sticks – and watch the last few steps down to the cellar, they’re completely rotten. I usually jump them.’
‘I stand warned.’ He turned and went around towards the front door, which the dogs had pushed open.
‘Hang on,’ I told Paddy. ‘Back in a mo.’ I darted round to the back door, found some boots and a puffa jacket, ditched my handbag and came back to meet him.
‘Molly sports her country wardrobe,’ I told him with a grin, striking a pose.
He didn’t answer and I added ‘no sense of humour’ to my list. In fact I could tell he was in a filthy temper. We walked in silence through the bright spring grass sparkling with jewel-like dragonflies, down the slope to where the ewes were, beyond the stream. Usually I made conversation to jolt him out of his mood but today I couldn’t be bothered. I’d wait for him, I decided. It would be interesting to see how long it took. It was interesting. He didn’t bother e
ither. Nor did he seem uncomfortable with the silence.
We crossed the stream at the narrowest part via the stepping stones and went in amongst the sixty or so ewes grazing quietly with their lambs or sleeping in the sunshine. The twin lambs we’d bottle-fed since their mother had died came rushing up for more at the sight of us, but I could see their tummies were still full from Mum’s efforts and they were just trying it on.
‘They won’t need much more anyway,’ said Paddy as one of them nudged his leg hopefully. ‘There’s almost enough nutrient in the grass.’
‘Good. That would be one less thing to do.’ Making up powdered milk every morning with that smell, so redolent of SMA for babies, took me straight back to David and Bolingbroke Road in the very happy early days, when he often did the feeds, leaving me to sleep. I could do without that jolting memory.
‘The novelty’s really worn off, hasn’t it?’ Paddy said dryly.
I looked at him angrily. I actually really liked feeding the orphaned lambs – who wouldn’t? It was one of the very pleasurable springtime activities, and even the children helped: he had no business thinking me a dilettante. He couldn’t know my sad thought associations, of course, but he didn’t half jump to conclusions about me, and I was about to have a go, when he surprised me.
‘Sorry. You’ve worked hard here, Molly. No one’s denying that.’
Wrong-footed, I closed my mouth. Was about to come back with something snappy but more even-tempered, when, over his shoulder, I realized who it was on her side, trying to graze uncomfortably.
‘Oh no – it’s Rita!’ I darted across. Paddy followed. ‘Typical!’ I cried as I sank to my knees. ‘It’s never the ones who are crap mothers and drive you mad, always the ones you care about.’ I scratched her head and she looked up at me with unusually bleary eyes. ‘Oh, thank you for coming, Paddy. She’s feeding triplets, not twins, and she’s one of my absolute favourites.’
About Last Night . . . Page 11